


Broken Glass: Part Fifteen – A New Frame

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [15]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-08
Updated: 2007-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for all of Season 1. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Fifteen – A New Frame

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _It was precisely what he wanted: to push Mohinder to the breaking point, to the point at which he could hold nothing back, and would give Sylar everything._

  
  


.15 A New Frame

 

            “Is there a reason you took so long in getting the door, Mr. Suresh?” Preston said critically as the flustered face of Mohinder Suresh appeared through a crack in the door. Detectives Preston and Murphy were standing outside, the former of the two looking angrier than the latter.

            Mohinder cleared his throat and opened the door a little more. “Yes, Detective…” Just not one that he could tell anyone with a clear conscience.

            “Well, what is it?” the officer asked tersely, crossing his arms over his chest.

            Mohinder ran a hand through his hair, fearing it mussed from the event moments before. “I was just about to get in the shower… when you knocked I didn’t have any clothes on,” he explained.

            Murphy looked over at his partner with a small, dismissive lift of his eyebrow. It was a decent excuse, actually. “Mr. Suresh,” Murphy began, getting more serious, “We would like to have a word with you down at the station.”

            Looking between the two, Mohinder slowly nodded. It was probably in his best interest to be compliant. _Play them for trust…_ “Certainly… please come in for a moment while I get a sweater.” Mohinder disappeared inside to the bedroom.

            Left alone in those moments, circling the rooms as they might, Preston and Murphy could find no traces of some second presence, or any other suspicious materials as they had upon their first visit. With no other choice than to bring the man in and see what interrogation might do, they resorted to a drive to the 68th precinct station right there in Brooklyn.

 

            Mohinder wasn’t fond of being a walking stereotype; the looks he got as an Indian man in the back of a police car, or even just being lead by two officers, were degrading even if he didn’t have the cuffs on. Interruption of previous events aside, it left Mohinder feeling slightly more irritated than he was concerned about what they had to say. After all, he was, in fact, innocent of what they were investigating. None the less, Mohinder was sat in a room void of color, of style, of everything but a two-way mirror, a table, and a pair of chairs.

            “Please have a seat, Mr. Suresh,” Preston said, waiting before he did so himself. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked calmly, setting a manila folder on the table.

            Mohinder’s eyes flickered between the folder and the man across from him, noting how disheveled he appeared upon closer inspection. “I assume it’s because you think I have something to do with this ‘Gray’ character… whom I’ve already told you I don’t know.”

            A patronizing smile worked its way across Preston’s face and his partner at the door crossed one ankle over the other where he leaned. “Yes, yes… you already told us- he must have been involved in your father’s research, you said? And you had no contact, no knowledge of these people. Is that correct?”

            Nodding slowly, Mohinder felt a knot settle in his stomach. “That’s right. I never met those he contacted before I came to New York.”

            Preston nodded in return, his light blue eyes steely behind their false compassion. “I understand, Mr. Suresh. I mean, how could you? You said you were in India, you had no idea of what went on between them and your father.” He paused for a moment, tapping his fingertips against the folder in front of him. “Tell me, have you ever been to Queens, Mr. Suresh?”

      Mohinder frowned very slightly. What sort of corner was this man meaning to back him into? “Once or twice, I suppose. I worked as a cab driver, so I’ve been all over different areas of New York.”

      “Mmhm. Have you ever been to the south side? Nice apartments down there.”

      “…I’m afraid I don’t follow, Detective. Why don’t you just tell me what this about?” Mohinder asked in vague annoyance.

            Preston nodded a held up a hand. “Alright, alright. I’ll come clean with you, Mr. Suresh.” The officer opened his folder and took out a piece of paper. “You see, the thing is, I would love for you to explain to me what you were doing in an apartment in Queens- 1146 Trenton Place, Apartment 1B, to be exact. The apartment of Gabriel Gray.” Preston slid that piece of paper- a photograph- across the table.

            In the photograph was a very tall man, with black hair combed over to the side, thick, square-rimmed glasses on his nose, and a rather offensive combination of dress shirt and sweater pull-over. He wore a pleasant, almost goofy smile on his face, and had his arm wrapped around a much shorter, older-looking woman. She had her hair up in a neat bun and a sweater of her own on. While it seemed like a very happy family picture, the background was just an apartment like any other; someone had taken the photo for them in a place the woman barely left, perhaps. A photo of the family she held dear and the home she held dearer.

            When Mohinder’s eyes fell upon the image, they immediately went wide, his lips parting as he drew in a breath. Never, _never_ could he have imagined Sylar with such an expression- with such an outfit, even. He looked harmless, utterly harmless and _normal_ , were it not so similar to something like a photograph out of the fifties.

            Preston smirked slightly at the look of recognition on Mohinder’s face. He could feel his big break coming. “I see you know someone there. Gabriel Gray, perhaps? Or his dead mother?”

            Mohinder’s heart suddenly raced for an explanation. He shook his head as he looked up, momentarily speechless and mentally groping for words. “I-”

            “Know Gabriel Gray- we’ve already assessed that, Mr. Suresh. What we want to know now is why you’ve been _lying_ to us? To help hide him? Cover for him? Did you help him with the murder?” Preston pressed, teeth on edge and hand snatching back the photo.

            “N-No you have it all wrong!” Mohinder insisted, looking from one detective to the next. “I never knew him like that- I never knew him by that name!”

            “His face has been all over the papers, all over the news, Mr. Suresh. You can’t really expect us to believe you never made the connection,” Murphy said critically from behind the two.

            Mohinder glared over at the man. “I didn’t! I hardly go out- I told you I don’t have a television in my apartment. I don’t know this man by that name. I know him by-”

            “By?” Preston asked, eyes boring holes into Mohinder’s.

            This was it- this was the move that could mean disaster. But if it bought him time…

            “Sylar. By the name Sylar,” Mohinder said finally, easing the tension of his shoulders a little as he leaned back in his chair. “My father had written in one of his journals the name ‘Sylar’ and that address… I suppose he went by a pseudonym. After my father’s death, I… couldn’t accept that it was an accident.” Mohinder felt a sickening shudder down his spine from saying those words. “I was wild- out of control. I asked my neighbor, Eden, to come with me to Sylar’s apartment- he was the last person I knew of that had contacted my father. And I went there… and… we found nothing. So I gave up.”

            The silence from the other two made Mohinder wonder just how much of his half-truths they had bought.

            “If I had known these men were one and the same… I… Well, I wish I could have been of help to you earlier, before you were sent on wild goose chases thinking I’m your suspect.”

            “And can this ‘Eden’ confirm your story?” Murphy asked from the door.

            Mohinder stared at the man for a long moment, and then slowly his eyes lowered. “…No, I suppose she can’t.”

            “And why not?”

            “...She killed herself not too long ago,” he murmured. Or at least that was the story.

            “What kind of a name is ‘Sylar’?” Preston was suddenly asking. “And did you find him? Did you obtain any clues to his whereabouts?”

            Mohinder shook his head. “The trail went cold after the visit to that apartment. I’m afraid I don’t know anything more than that.”

            Preston tapped his fingers against the desk once more, and then finally he stood up. “Will you excuse me for a minute, Mr. Suresh?” –and he headed for the door, motioning to his partner.

            Murphy followed behind with a lingering gaze on Mohinder.

            Leaning forward again, Mohinder sighed and picked up the photograph. He resisted the urge to quirk a tiny smile. So that’s why Sylar was always squinting over those books. It was a shame to ruin his eyes like that, but Mohinder understood; those were the ugliest glasses he had ever seen.

 

 

            A cold shower was one thing, but floating around in freezing cold temperatures in one’s pajamas was quite another. Not that Sylar could complain a terribly large amount- he wasn’t the one caught and dragged to the police station, after all. But he wondered if he really had nothing to worry about where Mohinder was concerned. True, they couldn’t connect him particularly to the murder of Virginia Gray… but what if Mohinder let something stupid slip? With the FBI (supposedly) on his trail in Manhattan, someone was sure to connect the dots with something or another, even with the law enforcement being as vapidly stupid as it tended to be.

            But Sylar knew, even as he stepped back in through the window, that all he could do was wait. Wait and utter curses on the names Preston and Murphy for stealing his golden moment with Mohinder. It had been precisely what he wanted: to push Mohinder to the breaking point, to the point at which he could hold nothing back and would give Sylar everything. But now all of that might be ruined; Mohinder would have time to think, time to reflect, time to regret, and most importantly, an opportunity to obtain more ammunition to be angry at Sylar, thanks to those imbecilic detectives.

            Sylar growled a little to himself as he rubbed his arms to chase away the chill. They deserved a lobotomy. Sylar walked back towards the living room. When he glanced at the desk, it struck him again: the noise. The noise of several nights before, when Mohinder indulged in late hours on his computer while Sylar ‘slept.’ He had been so preoccupied with Mohinder’s abrupt departure last night that in the hours he was gone Sylar had never even bothered to investigate the bizarre sounds he kept hearing in the evenings.

            Approaching Mohinder’s desk, Sylar took a seat in his chair, determined to reenact the noises he so easily discerned in the night. First, he pushed the chair back with his legs, listening to the familiar roll of the wheels. Next, he stood, attuned to the sound of the floorboards when they creaked. Then was the shift- the sound like fabric rustling against a surface. He reached forward to the desk- no, it was not a sound of drawers. It was closer to the hallway as well. Sylar turned around, finding himself facing two book cases. Rather, facing the crack between them.

            When he slid his palm slowly between, Sylar’s face brightened. He could hear the brush of skin against wood, so much like silk on a surface. He curled his fingers around the corner, and then rubbed them slowly down until he felt it: a ribbed texture, different than the wooden panel. Sylar felt until he realized just what it was, and he caught the corner and pulled slowly, hearing the satisfying sound of a thousand insect feet lifting as the duct tape peeled away reluctantly from the wood.

            Sylar pulled his find out into his view, and quite unexpectedly, he held in his hand a portable hard drive encased in a most obnoxious turquoise color plastic. Compact and removable, so that Sylar might never find it. Hidden, that Sylar might never know it survived. A clever ruse.

            He slowly smiled.

 

 

            “I think it’s real damn suspicious, Murphy,” Preston was saying as he gazed into the back of the two-way mirror. “Aren’t you getting that vibe? It’s like no matter what we toss at him he’s got an excuse.” Preston rubbed a hand in frustration through his hair.

            “Something isn’t adding up, Pres… Something’s off.” Murphy was nodding, watching the strange little look on Mohinder’s face when he gazed at that photograph. Then it hit him like a punch to the face. “He’s met him!”

            Preston looked up at his partner with a deep frown. “What do you mean, he’s met him?”

            Murphy gave Preston a sudden nudge in the shoulder, a stupidly happy grin on his face. “I got it, Pres! That’s the loophole! How could he know Gabriel Gray as this guy Sylar if he hasn’t met him before? Just by saying he knows him by another name he’s already admitted he’s been in the guy’s presence, right? Albeit for a while, with the kind of reaction that photograph got. Suresh told _us_ that by the time he followed the name ‘Sylar’ to the apartment it was already empty and he dropped it- but if he never even saw Gray on TV and he recognized that face as a different man, he’s telling us a flat out lie, Pres. He’s lying through his teeth!”

            The look on Murphy’s face spread to Preston’s like an infection. “My God, you’re completely right, Chuck. Holy…” Preston’s mind reeled at the idea that they could crack their witness. “It’s not enough to lock him up on, but it’s a start. Maybe we could get a search warrant off a lenient judge, maybe-”

            “Maybe we should just get back in there and see what he says?” Murphy suggested, giving Preston a pat on the shoulder.

            His partner nodded with a smirk. “Let’s go.”

 

            The silence had made Mohinder rather comfortable- rather, not having to speak to those two had _lessened_ his discomfort. So when they entered again, Mohinder straightened up in his chair, giving them both a wary and weary look.

            “So, Mr. Suresh,” Preston began again as he crossed the room and sat down in his chair. “Let’s talk about this man, Sylar.”

            The last topic of conversation that Mohinder wanted to engage in. “I don’t have anything to say about him,” he replied, sliding the photograph back to the center of the table.

            “I find that rather hard to believe, Mr. Suresh,” Preston countered, a hard look in his eyes. “Can you explain to me, perhaps, how you came to recognize this ‘Mr. Sylar’s face, if you never met him? Never found a thing of his in that apartment?”

            Mohinder felt his stomach drop and his throat tighten. A fatal mistake. “…His… picture. I’ve seen it in my father’s files.”

            “In his notebook? The one with the address?”

            “No, in his other files.” The quick lie.

            “There were other files with the name ‘Sylar’ in them? Could you produce for us these files as evidence?” –came the equally quick reply.

            Mohinder could practically hear the dirt being thrown on his grave after he dug it himself. Now was the time to back out, and fast. “Look, my father’s research is very sensitive- very secretive. There are lots of companies that would love to steal it and have tried to do so before. I’d rather appreciate if I didn’t have to turn over his private studies to just anybody, as I don’t think they’ll help your case. I can’t really, anyway, since I sent them back to India. Now, if I’m not being charged with anything, I’d like to get home. You can’t hold me if I’m not being charged, isn’t that so?” Mohinder asked pointedly.

            A silence passed between the two detectives.

            Murphy was the one to speak up again. “It really is in your best interests to cooperate with us, Mr. Suresh.”

            Mohinder turned an annoyed eye to the man. “I _am_ cooperating, and I think I’ve done quite enough of it, since you’re so insistent on telling me I know I man I never knew and am involved in the murder of a woman I’ve never met or even heard of until you came knocking on my door.” Mohinder stood up, pushing his chair back. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking my leave. Shall I call a taxi, or be taken in the back of a police car like a guilty party again?”

            The caustic tone made Preston frown deeply. “No need, Mr. Suresh. I’ll have someone escort you home. Thank you for your time,” he stated flatly.

            Mohinder moved past the table and waited for Murphy to step away from the door before he stalked through it on hurried feet.

            “…Guilty,” Preston whispered to himself. He’d get a judge so he could prove it.

 

            The car ride back to the apartment was almost as uncomfortable as the car ride away from it. This time he’d been placed with a random officer and the man couldn’t seem to shut up, constantly asking Mohinder stupid questions about who he was, what he was doing here, if he was guilty of something, etc. Nothing could have irritated the scientist more at that moment, which was hard to believe. He simply sat with his arms crossed the whole time, gave a stiff ‘thank you’ when the car stopped, and hurried into his building while resisting the urge to kick something. Mohinder wasn’t even sure if it was himself for being foolish he was angry at. He almost wanted to blame Sylar, but that made him feel guilty; after all, the one who agreed to all of this was Mohinder in the first place, wasn’t it?

            With a sigh, Mohinder found himself before his apartment door. He unlocked it, throwing his keys carelessly aside when he came in. Immediately it felt warm and he stripped away his sweater. “Sylar?” he called as he crossed the living room. No answer. Mohinder opened the bedroom door and entered, glancing to his right as-

            “Mohinder.” –Sylar came from the left and nearly gave him a heart attack. Mohinder gasped as he spun around and strong hands reaching to his hips steadied him on his feet.

            “Th-there you are. I thought you’d gone,” Mohinder answered uneasily. Sylar had stepped into his personal space to grab hold of him, and Mohinder couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to tower there like it was his right to overshadow the smaller man.

            “What happened?” was Sylar’s immediate response, a concerned look in his eyes, brows furrowed. “What did the police say? Did they want to arrest you?”

            Mohinder felt goosebumps raising on his skin from the eerie similarity to Zane and he took half a step back. “It’s fine. I mean… As fine as it could be. They questioned me about you, realized I knew you. They found out I was the one who went to your apartment that night, but-”

            “But they don’t have anything on you, do they?” Sylar met that half step, and his fingertips were still lingering on Mohinder’s jeans. “Mohinder, I was thinking…”

            “I gave them the name Sylar,” Mohinder blurted suddenly, like it was a terrible sin he was guilty of and couldn’t help but confess. It made the other man stop in his tracks. “I’m sorry, I… couldn’t think of another lie fast enough. We’re in serious trouble now. If that report gets filed and the FBI cross-references it…”

            But Sylar didn’t seem angry or upset. In fact, a tiny, almost unperceivable smile touched his lips. Mohinder had used the word ‘we.’ “Mohinder,” Sylar repeated the name and this time he took a step closer, so that the space between them was far from impersonal. He lifted a hand and rested it on the back of Mohinder’s neck, squeezing softly. “Let’s get out of here- the two of us. What good is New York when everything you need you can take with you?”

            Mohinder stared up at Sylar, brown eyes slightly wide and contemplative, turning over that statement again and again in his mind. That’s right, what was his plan from here? To continue his research? To keep hiding Sylar? To flee like Bennet suggested? If the most important things to Mohinder right now were his research, his freedom, and his key… But Sylar was both the lock against the second and the key to the first- how could those two possibly fit together? Maybe… just maybe Sylar was something else now. Something that trumped all of the other choices. Sylar’s suggestion echoed Zane Taylor. Mohinder looked down.

_“We’ll find them, Mohinder. All of them. Together, the two of us. It’s our destiny.”_

            But it wasn’t Zane he was enamored with anymore, was it?

            When Mohinder lifted his eyes again, lips were upon him before he could even think twice, and Sylar’s hand on his hip was sliding around his waist to pull him in closer. Mohinder held his breath against the kiss, thrown off by how very casually Sylar had taken it from him. Those lips were shameless and persistent, trying to prove to Mohinder what he had already resigned himself to. When Sylar pushed them together harder and dipped Mohinder back faintly, he lost enough balance to have to cling to Sylar, gripping his shoulders.

            This was it: his opportunity. And Sylar wasted no opportunities, not now. This one would be interrupted by no one. The bedroom door slammed itself shut and Sylar pushed Mohinder’s body back until it fell upon the bed with a creak. The darker man gasped in a breath, scrambling back to the center of the bed as Sylar crawled closer on his knees, crept into his space and hovered above him, pinning Mohinder by sheer gaze. It was the gaze of a predator, and the prey was far from escape.

            “W-Wait, Sylar,” Mohinder began shakily, breath quickening when he felt the taller man’s weight pressing him down, those lips descending first on his throat. That mouth was as strong as those hands and those hands were sliding against him in opposite directions, one pushing up the shirt over his silken skin and the other caressing it. The soft noise from Mohinder’s throat paid no heed to Mohinder’s words.

            “I’ve waited, Mohinder,” Sylar murmured against his flesh. “ _I’m tired of waiting._ ” One hand popped the button to Mohinder’s jeans. As it left, both hands pulled Mohinder’s shirt up and over his head against his struggles while some unseen aid tugged those jeans downward at the same time.

            Mohinder felt helpless to the way he was being stripped and when he twisted and turned beneath the man, he couldn’t tell if it was to help or reject his cause. The shirt and pants had been done away with, and Mohinder was left without breath, without reason, and once again in those thin pajama pants he had so hurriedly covered earlier that morning.  With a red color high on his cheeks and the feeling of Sylar’s hips against his own, Mohinder was speechless to man’s stare, panting softly. Mohinder struggled with himself because he already knew what he was going to let happen; it had been decided only hours before.

            Sylar pressed a palm to sheets at either side of Mohinder’s head, searching that bewildered expression. “…Don’t look at me like you don’t understand,” he whispered. Sylar could see it- the conflict on Mohinder’s face was all too obvious. It was just as he feared: the time left to think had ruined his chance, and though Mohinder wasn’t resisting, the only part of him that seemed to want this was the one Sylar could feel against his thigh. A kind of desperation settled in, and Sylar resisted the urge to seize Mohinder by the throat and throttle him. What was the point? If Sylar couldn’t have all of Mohinder, he didn’t want any of him.

            Reaching down to Mohinder’s arms, Sylar dragged his callused fingers slowly over the sensitive skin of those inner arms, then abruptly snatched Mohinder’s wrists and pushed them back beside the man’s head, pinned against the mattress. “ _Don’t look at me like you don’t need this!_ ” he breathed out, rubbing his thigh high between Mohinder’s legs. It elicited a most honest moan from Mohinder’s lips and left him squirming in that grasp.

            “S-Sylar… I…”

            “Don’t tell me you don’t want this. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it on that trip-” Sylar gripped those wrists harder, moving his hips slowly, rhythmically, stroking Mohinder through that cotton barrier until the man began to writhe and bite his lip in satisfaction. “ _Just say it, just moan my name and I’ll give you everything, Mohinder. **Everything!**_ ”

            His enemy, his nightmare, his disaster was pressing harder against his growing erection and Mohinder felt himself bending, felt himself losing and yielding as he had in the kitchen. That heated mouth was on his throat again, licking and teasing the skin, but it was when Sylar bit down and the shock of pain burned through Mohinder’s body that he finally snapped. “ _Sylar!_ ” he groaned helplessly, at last arching in return.

            What followed was a flurry, a frenzy of touches. Sylar’s shirt was all but torn from his body and his hands were all over Mohinder, stroking and tugging, lips tasting a sucking his flesh from his throat to his collarbone. Mohinder was moaning beneath Sylar, hands clumsily groping at his bandaged back and shoulders while the man’s hardness grinded down against his own in desperation for release. Sylar was suddenly holding the small of his back, lifting Mohinder hips as he jerked away those cotton pajamas and distracted him by abruptly stealing his mouth.

            Mohinder felt lost in the dizzying sea of movements, every part of his body aching when Sylar did so much as brush against it. With those lips recklessly deep into his own, Mohinder couldn’t even tell when Sylar had discarded his own pants, but he certainly noticed when their legs were suddenly bare and tangled together, Sylar’s erection grazing between their bellies. It was like a jolt of reality through Mohinder’s body, and suddenly he had to tear his mouth away, breath ragged. Sylar’s hand was moving down his outer thigh, and Mohinder panted against his lips to get a word in.

            “ _W-Wait, Sylar, you- have… I mean… have you… before…_ ”

            A divine smirk suddenly played across Sylar’s lips and his other hand pushed Mohinder’s curls back so he could place wet kisses on the curve of Mohinder’s ear. “ _Don’t worry,_ ” he whispered easily into it, fingertips curling around the inside of Mohinder’s thigh now. “ _I know how things work._ ”

            Mohinder felt first that hand slipping down and spreading his legs wider, but then there was the soft click of something plastic opened that he had never even seen drawn to the bed, followed by a slickness over fingers pressing against him. Unexpectedly, it became an icy touch to his flesh, a freezing cold that pushed and dipped inside him and made Mohinder cry out in alarm, fingernails digging into Sylar’s back. Sylar’s mouth was working at his throat again, sucking hard enough to leave marks and distract him from the frosty contact of a second finger delving inside, stretching him slowly. It was when that bizarre cold was urged deeper that the temperature began to fade, and as it did Mohinder’s muscles felt far more relaxed than before, the natural heat of those digits causing him to whimper and twist beneath Sylar’s touch.

            The man leaned up, kissing Mohinder’s lips slowly as he pulled those fingers away, both hands resting at the underside of Mohinder’s thighs to grasp him firmly. Sylar pressed the tip of his erection against him, his intimidating height curving over Mohinder possessively.

            “ _Do you want it?_ ” he whispered, lips to lips, body to body.

            Mohinder groaned pathetically, head tilted to the mattress and fingers tightening on Sylar’s back.

            “ _Do you want it, Mohinder?_ ” he demanded again, teeth gritting.

            “ _Y-Yes, please… please…!_ ” Mohinder begged softly.

            Finally, the surrender.

            Sylar obliged, pushing in at once to bury himself deep inside that glorious body. Mohinder cried out from the initial pain, tensing in an all the more delicious way, but Sylar did not wait; this was his, and he would take it. He needed it and he would get it. Grasping Mohinder’s legs tightly, Sylar began to thrust, eyes narrowed but watching how amazing the play of every movement was across Mohinder’s face. Every time Sylar pulled back, Mohinder looked as though he might die of neglect, and every time he pushed in, Mohinder looked as though he suffered through ecstasy. The way Mohinder clung to his shoulders, moaned shamelessly in pleas, wrapped his legs high about Sylar’s waist… Sylar drank it in on a high, gasping for air and salvation.

            Mohinder was lost in it; no thoughts, no worries, no cares, except for how it felt to be stretched and wanted, satisfied and driven into the sheets. Sylar was not a killer now, but a lover, an owner, and he had enrapt everything Mohinder was, everything Mohinder had longed for. The Zane in dreams, the Sylar in reality, they were both dominating his body and _God_ did it feel amazing. Every touch burned his flesh and reminded him of how long it had been. The longer they remained joined, the further from true thought Mohinder became. All he could focus on was the way Sylar rocked his hips into his body, the way Sylar’s thrusts struggled to lose themselves deep inside, torn between whose needs they should be satisfying.

            The reactions couldn’t lie- this was entirely about claim, and Mohinder had wanted to be taken. Now he was reveling in it. The tension that gathered in his body was urged on by the more frantic, more wild and uncontrollable movements of Sylar’s into his own. Soon Sylar’s hands had moved, one grasping Mohinder’s hip and the other bracing himself against the mattress. Sylar was now the one moaning and Mohinder trembled to think that even this seemingly impenetrable man had a weakness. Even so, it was Mohinder who was overcome by orgasm first, his body seizing in a sharp tremor and an anguished cry of the killer’s name gracing his parted lips as he spilled between them, blinded by heat.

            When he did open his eyes, Mohinder saw Sylar’s squeezed shut tightly, and he crashed his hips down impossibly hard against Mohinder, groaning gruffly as he came in a painful rush, his tense upper arm trembling where it held him up. Sylar then collapsed against Mohinder’s body, face to his throat, both their chests dueling in rapid motions to breathe. A sweaty, exhausted mess entwined together by limbs, neither willing to move.

            Mohinder could not recall being more satiated in his life, and for Sylar it was much the same. From this he had gotten everything. _Everything…_ Sylar laid still, eyes watching how Mohinder’s throat pulsed, watching the rise and fall of the dark marks he’d branded on already dark skin. He wanted to kiss them, to taste the salt of Mohinder’s skin again and know it as his own. But more than that, Sylar wanted Mohinder to kiss him first, for Mohinder to tilt his head to him and show Sylar weakness in a tender kiss. Show him a sign that Sylar could mold Mohinder into anything using this body.

            Then, suddenly, Mohinder was touching him.

            Mohinder had lifted an arm and his fingertips were very carefully, very cautiously stroking through Sylar’s black hair. It had been Sylar’s first time, but it didn’t appear to be the same for Mohinder; there seemed to be some subtle announcement of that in Mohinder’s comforting movement.

            Sylar experienced an instant strike of terror. He reeled in his mind from the horrifying realization of what he’d done. Whether or not he’d meant to, he had given Mohinder something- an irreplaceable part of himself that he could never have back. The very thought left his heart pumping madly and his brain circling for justification, for reasoning, even for retribution. Sylar had played this game, but he had played it on his own terms, hadn’t he? So how had this happened? How was it that he adored and hated that simple touch so intensely? Sylar swallowed and closed his eyes. No, he had not given a part of himself to Mohinder, he told himself. And even if he had, Mohinder had no idea. Mohinder could never know, unless Sylar told him what this meant to him. And what did it mean…? Victory. _Victory_ , he said inside. Now he could open up Mohinder in every way and discover every last corner and crevice of the man.

            But one had to wonder what part of ‘Sylar’ he might lose next if he did.

            In spite of what Sylar’s disillusionment told him, Mohinder was in fact neither smug nor knowing. He found himself feeling rather reserved, and the touch was a shy one that dared to think perhaps Sylar could have a soft side in the most intimate of moments. When Sylar made no other motion in response, Mohinder stopped. They lay in silence for a long time, neither one daring to move. Neither one telling their innermost thoughts through kisses of satisfaction.

            Mohinder was the one to finally pull away and begin to sit up.

            “…Where are you going?” Sylar asked as he rolled onto his side.

            Mohinder leaned over and grabbed his pajama pants from the floor, tugging them on. “To get a drink of water. Are you thirsty?”

            “…Nah.”

            Mohinder stood and ran a hand through his curls as he padded out of the room.

            This was Hell. This was Hell and this was Heaven and this was so utterly confusing to Sylar that even as he watched Mohinder leave he couldn’t figure out whether he wanted to kill or embrace the man. But that was alright, he reasoned, he had bought time, now. With this Sylar had bought all the time in the world he needed to observe and dissect Mohinder. All the time to figure out what game Mohinder was playing as well. Sylar smirked faintly and closed his eyes. That was fine. The ball was in his court anyway.

            For Mohinder, it was easy to tell himself that he should have felt guilty for sleeping with Sylar; any sane man or woman in his position should have felt the same. But somehow, it felt even easier to Mohinder to throw that thought out the window now. How long had he spent battling demons and guilts that couldn’t change the past no matter how hard he tried? Every time he had set back whatever progress he’d made with Sylar, it was because of the past. Bennet had been right- this was about the future. If Mohinder kept sinking in the mud of the things gone, he wouldn’t even have a chance to battle the present, let alone create a better tomorrow. Getting his hands dirty was just an unfortunate necessity.

            Well, he’d gotten them dirty. He knew that now, and the release he felt from doing all the wrong things for all the right reasons had left him feeling strangely lighter than before. Like something essential had finally come to pass. Mohinder stopped on the way to the kitchen at his desk and he paused to stare at the telephone. He’d call tonight and make sure he could leave New York by tomorrow morning, drive far away from here. Casting a covert glance to the crack between the bookshelves, Mohinder then thought of his hidden treasure there.

            All this comfort, physical, emotional- it didn’t mean he fully trusted Sylar. Why, Sylar hadn’t even asked him why he wasn’t working on Chandra’s research. He hadn’t even asked why Mohinder never took another DNA sample to recreate his Patient Zero. That was fine. Mohinder was fine with working in secret, with hiding the fact that the list survived. He was fine with lying for a while, to see how far Sylar would go, how good a person he could be. Mohinder could be a cautious optimist, admit to himself that there was something that man gave him that he needed, but that Sylar couldn’t be trusted not to take it away.

            Mohinder forgot his drink and he turned back around, walking to the bedroom door. He leaned a wrist on the wooden panel at his side and watched as Sylar, half covered with a sheet for the sake of decency, opened his tired eyes and looked over at him.

            “Something wrong…?” Sylar asked, appreciating for a moment how lovely Mohinder looked with his brown skin, white bottoms, and that mild glow about him.

            Mohinder stared for a prolonged moment at the man. Then his expression softened, and his lips curved upward. He could find comfort in the unknown. “…How would you like to go on a road trip?”

            A peculiar look crossed Sylar’s face, and then slowly, he smiled.


End file.
